Mornings after Mythic Journeys
(At the Kafe Köbenhavn in the Atrium Lounge)
by David Elliott

David Elliott lives in northern California, where he gives himself to multifaith storytelling through his company, StoryGrace. Recently described by a reviewer as "Huston Smith's illustrator," David's tellings are offered as solo events, at retreat centers and schools, and for various spiritual communities. He's already looking forward to the next Mythic Journeys, but you can reach him before then at storygrace@comcast.net.

Monday without you
Without the Euphrates
Without descent and ascent
Into song.
Time merely marks
The achievable now,
Declining appointments
With trollops and dreams.

No small-backed spider
Weaves ember into flame
No water rises
No dragon baptises
No sores offer to heal my fingers
I lean into conversations
But hear no one
Singing to the children.

I am alone with my story.

Then,
He passes before me,
Gloating into the air
And high-fiving Enkidu
With unphoned hand.
He cannot die —
Hasn't time —
But his triumphant face will turn
To the wilderness one day.
I love him,
This peachtree king,
Two-thirds human
And one-third clay.

And then again, next morning,
The dark Madonna,
The tavern maid of the atrium
She is not my waitress
But sees something on my shoulder,
Stops, serves
An un-menued smile
And asks what ails me —
Suddenly the most
Beautiful woman in the world.

I bring her home,
Remembering you,
But it's Tuesday now
And you're not here
To greet us,
To share our table,
To present your gifts.

It's Tuesday,
And all day
I will seek your wine-red laughter
In every encounter
Your strengthening heartbeat
In every rhythm of speech.

Now that you are gone
Here where you were,
Everything holds your absence.
This too is friendship unfurled,
The onward living of creation.

Still,
And still again,
I miss your eyes
"On the way to the Way,"
Beyond all insight,
I miss your eyes.

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